Longing For Yesterday
by ThisBookBelongsTo
Summary: In which Sherlock is afraid of the future and John makes it all better. As usual. JohnLock. Sorry about the ending; total fluff!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is not my usual 'verse, so please bear with me! It's just a little something I've been writing to help me think out a few things, and I thought you guys might like a look in. Sorry if the characters are a bit OOC – this isn't exactly an exercise in accuracy. Of course, I would still love to hear what you think…

Does that name read 'Stephen Moffat'? No? How about 'Mark Gatiss'? Then I guess I don't own it.

**Chapter One**

My breath catches in my throat at the sound of uneven footfalls on the stairs outside. THUD thud, THUD thud, THUD thud… I suppress a shiver, even though there's no one else here to see it. I don't need to look at my watch to know that it's exactly half past six, but I do anyway. Anything to distract myself, however briefly, from the rapidly approaching ordeal.

Half past six. That means he missed the first bus home after work, which he leaves at half past five on a Friday. Is today Friday? I think so, but I couldn't be sure. That means he'll be tired, and tired equals emotional. I feel myself tense at the implications of that thought and force my muscles to relax, just a moment before he pushes open the door to the flat.

He shrugs out of his heavy, rain-sodden coat and deposits it on the floor beside the stand. I ignore this with some difficulty, rising instead to my feet and forcing myself to approach my flatmate with a sympathetic smile. The expression sits uncomfortably on my face. He turns up to look me in the eye and I see his frown smooth out slightly, the corners of his mouth relax a little. It makes me sick to the stomach, knowing what I do.

Experience tells me that he won't want to talk about his day, so instead I ask if he wants to hear about an experiment I've been conducting. I know that the theory behind it often goes over his head, but it's been a long time since I stopped trying to simplify my explanations for him. Somehow, I just can't bring myself to care that much anymore. There was a time…

I realise that he isn't really listening, so stop talking. "Alright?" I ask instead, more because I know he appreciates it than because I want to. Things really have changed. He nods, but the white knuckles grasping the arm of the sofa say otherwise. In silence I move over to sit beside him, laying my head on his shoulder. To me, the sensation screams of awkwardness, but again, he seems to feel otherwise.

"Work?" I just have to ask, and I feel his muscles tense beneath me before he responds. It takes longer than usual. "Yeah," he manages, wearily. "You know the elderly woman I've been treating?" Of course I know. Even if he didn't share these things with me, I would still be able to find out from the bug in his computer. I nod. "Turns out I was right," he says simply, and I understand. After all, I've read his notes on her.

"I'm sorry," I say, because it's the accepted response in these situations. He sighs heavily, slipping down in his seat to nestle against my side. Every point of contact between our two bodies crawls, but all I can do is wrap one arm around his trembling shoulders. "There was nothing you could have done," I add. This is not true, but it's a lie he needs to hear.

His muffled sobs are the only response. I rub his back and wonder what to do with my other hand. His fingers grasp at my shirt and I wrap mine around his comfortingly. At least, I assume he finds it comforting. I hope so, because I certainly don't. But I'm being selfish. He needs my affection, now more than he usually does, so I hesitantly place a kiss to the top of his head. His hand tightens around mine. Even after six months, I can't get used to doing this sort of thing.

Sitting upright, John meets my concerned gaze with watery blue eyes. Red-rimmed, wet tracks streaking down his cheeks. "Thanks, Sherlock," he whispers, forcing a smile to his lips. I don't deserve his gratitude. If he only knew…

"Of course," I reply, my tone carefully manufactured to betray nothing of my true feelings. "Tea?" He does smile then, humming his approval. I extract myself from the embrace with no little feeling of relief and head for the kitchen. My face falls the moment my back is turned. This cannot go on.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I should add, this features an asexual!Sherlock, but that is not to say that all – or even most – asexuals are like this. I'm just using him to think aloud, so to speak… Oh, and the title comes from that song by The Beatles. You know the one.

No, I still don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Two

I sit on my bed, cross-legged, alone. I prefer it this way. John is in the kitchen, doing something boring involving the oven and conventional foodstuffs. Briefly, I wonder whether I cleaned it out properly after baking that foot in there…

Never mind. He survived the severed head, he can survive a toe or two. I close my eyes and focus, trying to clear a work space in my mind. This is important, but something is distracting me from the task at hand. I know what it is, but I don't want to dwell on it.

Guilt. I feel a terrible, consuming guilt, eating away at me inside. What I'm doing isn't fair to John, isn't really fair to me either. But I don't know how else to go on. He loves me. It is my hand he holds when he feels afraid, my body he wraps his arms around when he gets home every night. So far, that's as far as it goes, for which I am grateful. John, however, is not likely to feel quite so relieved about it, and that's what is keeping me from thinking, what keeps me awake at night.

I love him. I do know that much. He's caring, and he's never walked out on me yet, in spite of my various insanities. He just smiles, and calls them 'quirks'. I love him for that. But when his hand wraps around mine, and his arm circles my back… I wish I could love that, too. John does, I know, but it isn't something I've ever needed.

I think back to that first night, and a bitter smile twists my lips. It hurts my heart to remember how we were back then. So happy. We'd been chasing a suspected murderer down by the Thames. It was dark, and the alleyways were slick with mud. John had fallen behind, his leg holding him back. I ran on, ignoring the fact that I was now alone with a highly dangerous criminal. It was a foolish mistake. I can still feel the cold edge of his knife as he struck me, cutting into my arm. He ran then, into the shadows, and the shock of the blood seeping through my shirt held me paralysed. John had been horrified when he saw the wound, though he must have known that it was only shallow. He had bandaged it with my scarf, and I saw fear enter his eyes as the blue material was quickly dyed a gory purple. Then he took me in his arms, and I realised for the first time that I was shaking. I held him tight, suddenly aware of how close it had been this time. I might never have seen him again…

I had known, of course, of my affection for my flatmate, but I had not realised how deeply I felt. Our first kiss was drenched in tears. I vowed to myself that I would never risk losing him again. John had refused to let go of me until it became absolutely necessary, when we arrived back at the flat and he wanted to attend to my arm properly. In spite of the pain, it was perfect.

Since then, things between us have changed, not that he notices. Why would he? I work very hard to keep this from him, after all. John is happy, and I am the source of my own troubles, so why should he suffer? I still love him, no matter what else is different.

It is perfectly reasonable of him to expect what he does. He is patient with me, and it breaks my heart to know that no amount of waiting will be long enough for me to want it too. Sometimes, when he strokes my cheek as we lie together in the darkness, or when his lips become just a little more insistent against mine, I can almost feel his desire. It hurts me.

Because I don't want more than what we already have, and he does. Because one day, John is going to ask for something that I just can't give him.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you so much to all you guys who've made it this far! I hope it kind of makes sense. I know it's been pretty angst-y so far, so sorry for that. I'm not quite sure if this will have a happy ending, but I hope so.

Sherlock? Nope, still not mine.

Chapter Three

It isn't that I dislike this, I think as his head shifts slightly in my lap. We're watching some television programme about antiques. At least, John is. I'm too busy thinking. I always seem to be thinking when we're together these days.

I let my hand drape over his side and it almost feels natural. John wriggles contentedly and I feel sure that I could learn to do this, given time. If only it was just this. His hand, in turn, comes to rest on my thigh, and I know what he means by it but I just can't. The 'more' that I worry about late at night, when his legs are twined around mine and his snores roll gently around the room. When his fingers unconsciously reach for me and I lean away to avoid them.

I don't need to listen when he talks in his sleep to know what he is waiting for. It terrifies me more with each passing day.

I realise that he has spoken. "Hmm?" I ask, and he pushes himself up into a sitting position beside me before repeating himself. I can't help but notice that my muscles relax as he breaks contact. "I said, what's wrong?" he murmurs, and I freeze up. His voice is quiet, and I detect concern laced with fear. His hand takes mine gently, as if he's afraid that I'll shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Nothing," I lie easily. It's a lie I've told him many times before, but this time it must have seemed off, because he frowns at my response. "Sherlock, don't do this," he says, and I am shocked to hear a note of pleading in his otherwise level tone. "Something's bothering you, I can tell." I swallow, thinking vaguely how clichéd it is, but my throat remains dry.

"Is it me? Because if I've done something wrong, you have to tell me," he's saying now, and I feel the guilt flaring up inside at the hurt look on his face. He might even be close to tears. "You have done nothing," I inform him, in the steadiest voice I can muster, "yet." I don't know where the 'yet' came from, but the moment I say it I wish I hadn't because his whole body seems to crumble. I want so much to make things right but I just don't know how. I bet a normal person would know. They would lean in and lift his chin with one finger, looking him in the eye and promising everything would be alright. Then they'd kiss him, long and deep, and they would really mean it. But I can't.

"Sherlock," he whispers, and his voice is shaking as he speaks. "You… I would never…" he trails off, unable to look me in the eye. But I can't miss the droplets of salt water that streak down his face and make dark circlets on his trouser leg. "How can you think I would do anything to hurt you?" he asks suddenly, his voice harsh. "I love you."

My heart stutters as it always does when he says those words. I allow myself to think for one indulgent moment that he might love me enough to… But I can't ask him for that. Never that. "I know," I say instead, "and it isn't your fault. It's just me."

"It's not you, it's me?" His bitter mimicry cuts me deep. "Isn't that a bit ordinary for you?" He forces a smile, but there is no humour in it.

He deserves better than this, I know. He deserves my honesty. I take a deep breath. "John, I love you." He clutches my hand tighter and I continue. "More than anything. But," I pause. The moment of truth. "I can't give you what you need."

He looks at me sceptically. "Sherlock, you are what I need," he says firmly. "Quirks and all." I shake my head, unconvinced. "You think that now," I say, "but what about the future? I know you want more than this, and I just… don't." John looks at me softly, and I can't read his expression as he slides closer. Taking me in his arms, he nestles his face into the base of my neck and plants a light kiss. I tense nervously and he leans back to look me in the eye.

"I need you," he repeats gently. "If you don't want to have sex, fine." I start at his bluntness, even though I know it's ridiculous of me. "If you don't want me to kiss you, fine," he adds, but his voice trembles slightly. "If you don't want me to hug you…" I interrupt his sentence, launching myself bodily at him so that we end up lying together on the sofa. I wrap myself around him, holding him as close as I can. "I love you," I whisper into his jumper.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Alright people, last chapter! Looks like there'll be a happy ending after all. Good. What do you think of it? Please do let me know! This is a fluffy chapter to finish off, as a reward for all you lovely folks who've stuck with this until the end.

If you still think I own it by now, then no amount of disclaimers will convince you otherwise.

Chapter Four

Our seat stops at the top of the Ferris wheel, rocking to and fro in the chill breeze. John, who is sensible enough to be wearing gloves, takes my pale fingers between his palms and rubs them, trying to generate some heat. I smile gratefully, and it feels perfectly right. We are sitting close together so our legs touch, nestled in to conserve our body heat.

The wheel lurches forward and he releases my hand, allowing me to hold onto the freezing metal safety rail. Once we have disembarked, we head for the candyfloss stall that John pointed out earlier on. We buy one enormous stick and share it, becoming smothered in the wisps of pink sugar in the process. John kisses it from my cheeks, finishing with an affectionate peck on the bridge of my nose. I smile.

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, I hum contentedly. "Love you," I whisper in his ear, drawing a grin to his lips. "Ready to go home?" he asks casually, but I know what is really on his mind. I nod, mind buzzing in anticipation. "We'll pick up ice-cream on the way," I agree happily.

Back on our old familiar sofa, chocolate ice cream nestled between our knees, we curl together to ward off the chill. John has pulled his quilt around our shoulders. "I wonder if this is how sheep feel when they get stuck beneath a snow drift," I muse aloud, and he rests his head on my shoulder with an affectionate chuckle. Only a week ago, it would have been an alarming gesture, but now it feels perfect. Now it feels safe.

"You look so happy these days," he notes. "I can't believe it." I know he means that he can't believe how much difference our conversation has made to me. I am a different man, really. "John," I reply patiently, "it was not unreasonable of me to assume that you would want…"

"I know, I know," he interrupts. "I just never knew… I should've realised…" he stammers. I hate the self-recriminating tone he has, so I silence it with a rare kiss to his lips. "There was no way you could have," I assure him, feeling his body relax against me. "Are you sure you don't mind, though?" I ask, nervous even though he answers this countless times in a day. He shakes his head in mock-despair.

"Sherlock. I can't be without you," he says firmly. "I will take anything you give me. This," he gestures at our interlocked forms, "is more than I have any right to expect. It's perfect."

"Anything?" I ask, feeling my heartbeat skip. He nestles closer in response, chocolate ice-cream melting over his lips as he takes a generous spoonful from the tub that rests between us. "M-hmm," he responds positively. Swallowing, he continues, "Of course. Whatever you're comfortable with."

I think faster than I ever have in my life. I think about the past six months, and how they've been the happiest of my life. I think about how it feels when we're together, like this, and try to imagine what it would feel like to know that we would never do this again. I just can't, it hurts even to try. I know, in that moment, exactly what I have to do. "John?" I venture, unaccountably nervous. He looks up at me with those perceptive blue eyes and I feel myself melt a little inside. "Will you..."

The words dry up in my throat. I lick my lips, swallow and try again. "Marry me?" It comes out as barely more than a whisper, hoarse but echoing in the sudden silence. His mouth is suddenly on mine and I can taste chocolate. "I love you," he says into the kiss.


End file.
